Pretend it's Alright
by Scifiroots
Summary: Maybe God will cover up his eyes... Deal with the devil, sacrifices, and definition of betrayal. Stillson/Bruce kinda. Implied Johnny/Bruce...


Pretend it's Alright

By Clarity Scifiroots  
Disclaimers apply.  
**Characters**: Dead Zone – Bruce, Stillson (implied Bruce/Johnny)  
**Rating**: Mature  
**Summary**: _Maybe God will cover up his eyes..._ Deal with the devil, sacrifices, and definition of betrayal.  
May!fic 28 of 31

--

I can't shake this feeling from my head.  
there's a devil sleeping in my bed.  
watching you from across the way.  
I cannot make this feeling go away

I know it's not the right thing.  
and I know it's not the good thing.  
but kinda I want to.  
I'm not sure of what I should do.  
when every thought I'm thinking of is you.  
all of my excuses turn to lies.  
maybe God will cover up his eyes

"Kinda I Want To" Nine Inch Nails

--

"Strange to see Smith's lapdog out on his own. Or have you gotten lost and he's lurking around somewhere?" Stillson's smirk echoes his confident posture as he greets Bruce's entrance by reclining in his armchair. The hotel suite is large and multi-roomed, including a parlor-like room where Stillson has met with advisors or potential political allies over the past couple of days.

Bruce stands next to the couch, casting a pointed glance at the body guards standing close by. Stillson laughs and waves them off. "Alright, let's hear what you have to say. Sit down. Want a drink?"

"No," Bruce says. He waits until the guards have left and room and closed the doors before he sits. His posture is rigid, vertebrae perfectly aligned so that he is sitting perfectly straight.

"Do you have a stick up your ass or is this the result of wrestling between the sheets with our mutual friend Johnny Smith?" Stillson swirls the liquid at the bottom of his glass around idly, eyes sparking as his smile grows wider.

Bruce doesn't reply, forces himself to let the accusations break apart and lay in pieces at his feet.

"I'm here to make you a proposition," Bruce says, voice deceptively steady. He doesn't even blink when he says it.

Stillson's eyebrows arch in surprise and he leans forward, interest piqued. "Oh? And what's on offer? What possibly could I do to help you? Seems to me that Smith's fixin' to crucify me, hardly seems like I ought to help the guy."

Bruce's stare doesn't waver. "Janus is backing you." Stillson's chin raises a fraction of an inch in acknowledgement. "He's keeping tabs on Johnny, and his family."

"Family?" Stillson chuckles and leans back. "Would hardly call a son being raised in another household a 'family.'"

"You're waiting for the chance to drop down on the Bannermans. Leave them out of this, I'm the only one besides Johnny who knows what's this about."

Stillson takes a drink from his glass, gaze appraising Bruce in the meanwhile.

"Seems to me you may be the only two who know. Care to enlighten me, Mr. Lewis?"

"I can do that, if you stop watching John's family. And you allow him privacy in his own home."

"I'm insulted that you think I would consider infiltrating the privacy of an American citizen's home!"

Bruce's lips tighten. "Deal or no?"

With a derisive snort, Stillson tossed back the rest of his drink and sets the glass down hard on the coffee table between them. "All that for exchange of a piece of information that likely is the wild imaginations of a deranged cripple? Hardly a fair deal. Do you know how to sweeten the pot? What can you offer that would truly keep me from backing out?"

"I will know," Bruce says in all seriousness. Stillson smiles a little at that, clearly unconvinced.

Silently Bruce shrugs off his shoulder and raises his hands to the top button of his shirt. He watches Stillson's gaze follow his movements and the flash of confusion, a spark of intrigue and lust—

As he continues to unfastened the buttons, Bruce speaks quietly. "I know more than you might think. And I have more than information to offer you." He undoes the last button and tugs his shirt to the side; he wears no undershirt. He rubs his hands over his own torso, tweaking his nipples, brushing the faint definition of a couple ribs, fingering the sensitive skin below his throat. When Stillson's stare is thoroughly focused, Bruce slides off the couch to his knees.

He'd left his pride at the door, locked away his sense of dignity and self-preservation before he came to bargain with the devil. So he crawls slowly to Stillson and rubs his hands slowly up the man's calves, over his knees, along his thighs—

In a matter of moments, Stillson's fingers close tightly over Bruce's ears and he whispers harshly, "Don't fuck with me, Lewis."

Bruce maintains his stare and eases one hand between Stillson's thighs, searching higher and higher until his fingers brush against a cloth-covered fleshy firmness. He parts his lips and trails his tongue over his front teeth. Stillson shakes him; Bruce can't control a wince but doesn't back down.

"Just what are you offering?" Stillson demands, one hand moving roughly down the side of Bruce's face. His fingers grip Bruce's chin tightly.

"Me. Whatever you want," Bruce says softly. When Stillson stares at him, Bruce knows there is no hesitation or doubt in his eyes, no flicker of rebellion or threat. "The Bannermans," he reminds, "privacy at home."

Stillson's eyes narrow. Bruce doesn't blink.

"An explanation. You keep him away from me. You obey me."

Bruce ignores the nausea in his gut and the bile creeping up his throat. "Yes," he whispers.

"_Anything_," Stillson hisses.

"One condition," Bruce murmurs, expression hardening. "I will not betray him."

Stillson lets Bruce go abruptly; his smile is sharp and icy. "Alright. If you think you haven't already."

Bruce refuses to answer or look away, but a part of him feels like dead.

-- --


End file.
